Dr. Sengupta was a transformed man as soon as he stepped behind the wheels of his battle-scarred Honda City, unrecognizable from the soft-spoken, urbane doctor examining an unending stream of patients at his CR Park clinic in the evening. Many of his regular patients were not well off; he treated them without charging any fees. They just had to pay a nominal amount before the first consultation. But once in his car, ‘Oh, baba-re-baba’ the polite doctor transformed into the alert devil himself; beady eyed, ready to teach the city’s testosterone-driven, uncouth drivers a lesson. It was his firm belief that a virtual war was raging on the city’s streets and one had to stand up, rather manoeuvre, and fight. There was no other way as the traffic policemen seem to have largely abdicated their responsibility to regulate traffic. To be just to the poor fellows, they could not be faulted given that of late reckless NCR motorists instead of slowing down or stopping had taken to driving straight over the hapless policemen some of whom managed to jump over bonnets and cling to the wind shield. It was the Wild West on the city’s roads.

This Dr. Jekel and Mr. Hyde transformation in her middle-aged, frail husband would have been comic for Mrs. Sengupta, but for the potentially real dangers involved and it worried her no end. She would advise him to relax and drive as the doctor started for his clinic. In the mornings, over tea, if there were any instances of road rage or dangerous driving on the city’s roads reported in the papers, she would make it a point to show the news item to him. Recently, there was the story of a man being shot just because he was not quick enough to move his car to the side of the road while asking for directions. Such news only evoked a sense of dreadful Déjà vu in her and alarm for her husband’s wellbeing. People seemed to have lost any fear of the law.

Doctor Sahib’s sudden transformation was, however, not in his hands; the city’s roads and drivers did something to him that elicited an instinctive gut reaction and he would invariably succumb to the impulse for what he airily termed a “healthy scrap”. Mrs. Sengupta’s concerned, cautionary, caustic voice would fade and he would morph into an unrecognizably reckless version of his natural self. And, his Honda city like a true-blue veteran warrior proudly wearing the marks of numerous road-battles fought on the metropolis’ roads would beckon – to transport him away from his laid back, feel good world. He liked to let his car be without the mandatory denting-painting. Among other benefits, it afforded him the leeway to drive passionately.  

When on the city’s roads, Dr. Sengupta kept an eagle’s eye, or rather the eye of a shaggy Kite circling high up in the PM: 2.5-laden air, on the vehicles around him. Accelerating like Bolt in the last fifty metres to deny competitors space to squeeze-in in front. Or at times, accelerating just enough to maintain a teasing pace and keep the rivals in tantalizing doubt that they could get ahead; the two vehicles running side-by-side before the other fell back due to a slower moving vehicle in front. He played with their minds or liked to believe he was doing so. Side-by-side, he kept a close watch on the rear-view mirror to check if anyone was trying to sneak up from behind and overtake. He would then subtly manoeuver the old warhorse to thwart the person’s potential advance. In case a car behind him honked, especially if it was a SUV, he would double-honk in petulant retaliation and deliberately slow down a little if it was feasible for, he also had to be careful that someone else on the lookout didn’t angle-in in front from the adjoining lane.

When she would be sitting next to him, Mrs. Sengupta would be on tenterhooks digging her heels into the car’s floor as her husband drove along as if it was a matter of life and death. In case a driver managed to overtake him from the wrong side, he was inclined to accelerate in pursuit as far his route permitted and relished throwing a quick, triumphant, sidelong glance with a smirk at the vanquished foe if he did manage to get ahead.  It was a cat-and-mouse game he reveled in somewhat akin to the games his son Suranjan played on his smartphone. He knew it would up his blood pressure but willfully ignored the impact. Dr. Sengupta’s most ardent dream was comically childish to say the least. He dreamt of putting sharp, metallic claws, preferably customized in Germany, on the two side-mirrors that would open up whenever a reckless driver deliberately drove dangerously close. It would be akin to the sharp, efficient cut of a scimitar or a scalpel to use a less heroic analogy.

The genteel doctor usually preferred to drive in the right-most lane keeping a little distance from the divider on his right. The tactic not only helped keep one flank secure, but it also enabled him space to manoeuvre right, preventing vehicles trying to sidle in from the left. With experience, he had also developed a unique technique to overtake slow moving but obstinate drivers. He would signal a lane change to the left and the driver ahead looking at him in his rearview mirror would veer slightly to the left; then using his left feint, the doctor would make his move – a quick dash along the right. It was his favourite move like a hockey dribble and success, if achieved, gave him childlike joy. When Mrs. Sengupta rode shotgun, these acrobatics on the road elicited the choicest Bengali expletives from her increasing the doctor’s happiness manifold. In undertaking all this adventure, it helped that his school and college mate had been one of the city’s most well-known Police Commissioners.

Then one day the inevitable happened. A large, silent, White Shark type, menacing SUV with no registration but just the word Gurjar painted on its number plate between two bright red roses suddenly swerved right and the doctor was caught totally unawares. He too swerved rightwards in reflex. The next moment, the good doctor was on the other side of the low, zebra-patterned divider partially blocking the after-office traffic and with the battle-scarred Honda City’s axle cleanly broken in two. As a shell-shocked doctor gingerly got off his car, he was greeted with a barrage of honking and expletives from the passing motorists who would wind down their windows to vent their office-frustration. He pretended not to hear but many of the expletives were severe and unkind and some referred to his age. Meanwhile, four sheepish, muscled youth tentatively disembarked from the giant SUV, which was beached halfway on the divider, and unsuccessfully tried to shoo away the growing crowd of onlookers many with their cellphones recording the free drama on the roads. It would be a good story to narrate back home and share in Whatsapp groups.

That was the last day Dr. Sengupta drove on the city’s treacherous roads. He now partners Suranjan in playing PUBG during the late evening rush hours while a relaxed Mrs. Sengupta reclines nearby reading the Ananda Bazar Patrika.

***